


Break

by notmyrevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically it's a kinkfic, Biting, Breathplay, Bruises, D/s overtones, Is that everything?, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, i think so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nothing, Grantaire reasoned as he slotted his key into his front door, quite like coming home from your shitty job, to your shitty apartment, then going to your shitty fridge to try and find something to make a shitty dinner with.</p>
<p>He kicked the front door shut behind him, and dropped his duffle bag in the space next to the frame.</p>
<p>He wasn’t expecting to find his boyfriend sitting at his table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

_There was nothing,_ Grantaire reasoned as he slotted his key into his front door, _quite like coming home from your shitty job, to your shitty apartment, then going to your shitty fridge to try and find something to make a shitty dinner with._

He kicked the front door shut behind him, and dropped his duffle bag in the space next to the frame.

He wasn’t expecting to find his boyfriend sitting at his table.

Enjolras was poring over papers in front of him, glasses perched on his nose and, _oh_ , a cigarette in his hand. Lit, judging by the lazy curls of smoke that were coming from the tip.

It spoke volumes that Enjolras hadn't even noticed him enter the apartment.

Grantaire walked up behind him, sparing a cursory glance at what he was working on, before plucking the cigarette deftly from Enjolras's fingers and bringing it to his own lips.

"These are mine," Grantaire said, words rounding around the filter perched between his lips. Enjolras snapped his head up, expressions flying over his face almost too quickly for Grantaire to decipher. Affection, amusement, annoyance.

"If you're going to leave them lying around--" Enjolras started. 

"This is _my_ apartment, Apollo," Grantaire pointed out. 

Enjolras huffed, and Grantaire looked at him pointedly. 

"How long have you been here?" Grantaire asked, voice dipping low with an unspoken idea. He suspected Enjolras didn't know what the time was, let alone how many hours had passed. Enjolras shrugged, but didn’t speak.

Grantaire stared at him, raised an eyebrow, and took a drag from the cigarette in his fingers. He didn’t miss the way Enjolras’s eyes flicked down to watch his lips wrap around the filter and his cheeks hollow as he drew in. Then Grantaire exhaled slowly, the smoke pluming out from his open lips and fading into the air. He waited for Enjolras to speak.

"I have to do this," Enjolras said finally, irritability thick in his voice as he reached for the cigarette. Grantaire held it from his reach.

"You need a break," Grantaire replied, reaching over Enjolras's stack of papers to grind the cigarette out in the ashtray. "C'mon, get up." 

"I don't--" Enjolras said, protest failing as Grantaire hooked a hand beneath his arm and pulled him up.

"Up," Grantaire repeated, turning Enjolras around until he was leaning against the table, the edge pressing into his lower back.

"Grantaire, I have a paper to write," Enjolras said in frustration, though his hands came to rest on Grantaire's hips.

"If you mention your homework again," Grantaire said, voice rough, tone changing from playful to something else that only ever emerged when he was alone with Enjolras. "I will tie you to the bed, where you can't reach a single pen, and you'll stay there until I'm done with you. Understand?" 

Enjolras snapped his mouth shut. They stared at each other. Grantaire wasn't touching him, giving Enjolras the chance to move away, to either consent or not-consent on his own terms. Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at his work, and exhaled slowly. Then, subtly, he nodded his head.

Grantaire grinned.

"Good boy," he said, leaning in to brush his lips along Enjolras's jaw.

_(The first time they had done this, it was awkward. Despite being experienced, Grantaire kept hesitating, constantly questioning his actions and behaving as if Enjolras was easily broken. It was almost enough to put Enjolras off entirely, to make him consider returning to Combeferre. They may not have the same kind of intense passion that he and Grantaire had, but Combeferre was good, calming and centering. He also knew exactly how to have Enjolras begging on his knees. It was only after a long conversation about limits, what was okay, what wasn't, safe words for both of them, and several more tries, that Grantaire figured out that broken was exactly what Enjolras wanted to be._

_And Grantaire had slipped into the role like it was a second skin. He had come to enjoy it, had taken something he was unsure about and crafted it into a space that sometimes left him more of a ruin than Enjolras. There was a certain something Enjolras found fascinating about watching the physical shift in Grantaire, watching him go from slouched, relaxed and loose with wine and humor, to straight-backed and in-command._

_Grantaire had grown exceptionally good at reading when Enjolras needed someone else to take control of his life.)_  

Grantaire curled his fingers around the hem of Enjolras's shirt and tugged up sharply, his intention clear. Enjolras raised his arms obediently, and shook his head to free his hair once the shirt was off and tossed away somewhere unimportant. Grantaire reached forward, splaying his hands against each side of Enjolras's ribs and digging his fingers in gently.

"You should know better than to do something without asking permission first," Grantaire said, digging his fingers in again for emphasis. "Did I say you could smoke any of my cigarettes?"

"No, but I--" Enjolras started to protest. Grantaire's nails went into his soft skin, cutting him off, and Grantaire narrowed his eyes.

"Yes or no answers, only. If I wanted you talking, I'd be asking how your day went," he said, leaning in until they were pressed flush together, and Grantaire could feel Enjolras's slightly shaky breath across his cheek. "Did I say you could smoke my cigarettes?"

"No," Enjolras murmured, the edge of defiance still in his tone. Grantaire huffed, and dropped his head against Enjolras's collarbone. Enjolras stiffened for a moment, unsure, because this was affectionate and Grantaire knew affectionate didn't belong here--

Grantaire's teeth closed on the taut skin pulled tightly across Enjolras's left collar bone, and bit down. He bit down and didn't stop biting until two angry red marks appeared and Enjolras's knuckles were white, gripping the edge of the table.

“Did you then,” Grantaire said, licking his lips, “proceed to smoke them anyway?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, the word a breathless hiss. Grantaire's nose nudged against his jaw, again in uncharacteristic affection, before pressing his teeth to the side of Enjolras's throat and leaving another angry red mark, one there was no way his shirt would hide. Enjolras's hands flew up, one tangling in the scarf at Grantaire's neck, and then other clasping onto his bicep like a vice. Grantaire looked up, met Enjolras's already-wrecked expression and very firmly moved his hands from Enjolras's sides to his wrists. He _squeezed,_ and pulled them away. 

“If you can’t keep your hands to yourself,” Grantaire said, voice rough with unrestrained desire, “Then I will tie them behind your fucking back.” 

Enjolras let out a low, pleading noise.

Grantaire grinned. 

“Undo your belt and turn around,” he commanded, releasing Enjolras’s wrists and stepping back. Enjolras did as told, undoing his belt, tugging it free from the loops in his pants and letting it slither to the floor at his feet. He turned and braced his hands against the table, shoulders hunched and tense. Grantaire traced his knuckles along the waistband of Enjolras’s pants, then slowly along his spine. He reached the center of his back and stopped, flattening his hand and _pushing_.

Enjolras went down without resistance, until his elbows were bent and his chest was flat against the table. The edge dug across his hips, a painful pressure each time Grantaire moved him. Then Grantaire took his wrists again, pulling his arms around until his hands were settled in the small of his back. Enjolras grunted softly, losing the support of his arms and putting all of his weight on his chest.

Grantaire was only holding him with one hand, unlooping the scarf from his neck with the other. It wasn’t enough to actually restrain him, but the gentle pressure from Grantaire’s fingertips was a subtle reminder not to move. 

The scarf was cotton, flexible, and printed with a monstrous yellow and black plaid. It was long, and looped easily around Enjolras’s forearms and wrists. Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s fingers knotting the scarf together, with a practiced ease Enjolras didn’t remember him having.

He shifted his wrists to see how much give the scarf had. The angle was awkward, with his arms pinned together against his back, but it was finely woven, more for fashion than warmth, and he could easily pull—

Grantaire tugged sharply on his hair, pulling his head back.

“You’re not getting out of those knots. Do not ruin my scarf,” he commanded, bending down to hiss the words against Enjolras’s ear. Enjolras couldn’t fight back the shiver that trailed down his spine. 

“How?” he rasped, voice already gone.

“I took a class,” Grantaire responded simply, offering no further explanation. “Now stop asking questions before I find another scarf to gag you with.”

Grantaire stepped back and looked Enjolras over. He let out a breath and mumbled a low _god damn you look good_ , then finally, “You admit to taking my cigarettes and you admit to not having _permission_ to take my cigarettes, do you agree?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, keeping his eyes on a page of the homework still covering the table.

“So, are you _sorry_ for taking something you had no permission to take?” Grantaire continued, folding his arms.

“No,” Enjolras said, eyes flicking up to meet Grantaire’s defiantly. Grantaire raised his eyebrows, surprised.

“Excuse me?” he said, momentarily off guard.

“I said no,” Enjolras repeated, hissing the words out unapologetically. 

They had done this before, though. They had learned what made the other whimper in need and what made him use his safeword. Enjolras knew that to get what he wanted, to be dominated and broken and fucked out, he needed to give Grantaire a defiant push over the edge.

Once over that edge, however, Grantaire _gave_.

He leaned over Enjolras’s body, mouthing at the back of his neck, before tracing his lips down the line of his spine. He paused at Enjolras’s bound wrists, brushing his nose over the fabric, before he bit down on his pale skin, hard enough to leave another mark. Then, with a reassuring kiss placed against Enjolras’s open palm, Grantaire reached beneath him, deliberately brushing his knuckles across the front of his jeans, tracing over the outline of his hardening cock. He palmed him, once, teasing, before undoing his jeans and straightening up. 

“I hope you realise that this is gonna require punishment,” Grantaire said, as he curled his fingers into the belt loops of Enjolras’s jeans and tugged downwards. He paused, and quirked an eyebrow.

“No boxers?” he asked, amused.

“I didn’t have time to attempt to find a clean pair. I told you, I have a paper to write, this is _important_ ,” Enjolras responded with an indignant huff. Grantaire made a pleased noise in his throat, and sunk to his knees. He guided Enjolras’s jeans down his legs, and as soon as enough skin was free, leant forward to bite down on the corded muscle of his thigh. Enjolras tensed immediately, biting down on a whimper. Grantaire chuckled low in his throat, and then murmured _off_  against Enjolras’s skin, tugging pointedly at the cloth pooled at his ankles. Enjolras stepped from out, one leg at a time, as Grantaire got back to his feet. 

“You?” Enjolras asked with an annoyed tone, giving a pointed look to the clothing that still covered Grantaire’s body.

“Nope,” Grantaire answered simply, and kicked Enjolras’s jeans away to join his shirt. He stepped back up behind Enjolras, settling a hand over his tied wrists and smirked. “Face forward.”

Enjolras did so, shoulders tensed in anticipation.

With a _crack,_ Grantaire's hand came down, leaving a sudden, red print blooming on Enjolras's skin. Enjolras's hips twitched forward, beyond his control, and he gasped sharply. Grantaire smacked him again, then a third and fourth time, each evenly spaced apart. Enjolras couldn't stop his hips from moving, seeking any kind of friction he could get. Grantaire's free hand gripped the back of his neck firmly, holding him down, and Enjolras turned his head, letting his cheek be pressed to the wood. Grantaire knew he could see each time he raised his hand, and watched the muscles tense through Enjolras's lower back in anticipation of each strike.

Grantaire's heart was racing, kicking across his ribcage each time he saw his hand-print turn from shocking white to a hot red against Enjolras's skin. Enjolras was writhing, bucking to get away and pressing back for more. He watched Enjolras's fingers clench and unclench, looking for purchase that wasn't there. He smacked again.

Enjolras made a choked sound, a broken-off whimper. His arms strained against the bonds, and he panted, open-mouthed, against the surface of the table.

Grantaire fisted his free hand in Enjolras's hair, tugging sharply and pulling his head up. He leaned over his back, and dropped his voice.

“Let's try that question again,” He hissed. “Are you sorry?”

His hand raised again.

“Yes, fuck, _yes_ ,” Enjolras sobbed out.

Grantaire’s hand dropped to his side, the other loosening from Enjolras’s hair and stroking gently down the line of his back, following his spine. He traced soothingly over the raw skin, and hummed in appreciation.

“Good boy,” he murmured.

Enjolras was desperate, he had been since Grantaire’s hand had first landed against his skin, and all it would take was something, _anything_ and he’d be gone, he’d mess up the homework beneath him and he didn’t, _couldn’t,_ care.

“Don’t,” Grantaire commanded, _knowing_ , and his fingers curled over Enjolras’s hip. “Not until I say you can.”

Enjolras hissed out a breath, but dropped his head down and stilled. Grantaire’s breath hitched, subtly, and he pulled back, stepping away from Enjolras. Enjolras wanted to protest, wanted to keep Grantare still and opened his mouth to demand as much.

“Don’t move,” Grantaire said, swatting the side of Enjolras’s thigh in a reminder. Enjolras snapped his mouth shut and levelled a glare over his shoulder at Grantaire as he walked away from the table, towards the bedroom. 

Enjolras flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders as best he could. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. The knots were firm, his skin burned from where the flat of Grantaire’s hand had landed and he ached so strongly that Enjolras wasn’t sure his legs would even support him.

Grantaire returned a few moments later, and Enjolras stilled. He was carrying a small bottle of lube, compulsively flicking the cap open and closed. He paused in the doorway, eyes raking over Enjolras, and licked his lips.

“I’m tempted to just keep you like this,” he said, though he stepped towards Enjolras, moving behind him again. Enjolras faced forward again, and breathed out slowly when he heard the click of the cap being reopened. Grantaire didn’t touch him, but the rustle of his clothing indicated his movements as Grantaire slicked up his fingers. 

His hand settled on Enjolras’s lower back, keeping him still. Enjolras caught his lower lip between his teeth, and bit back a groan as he felt Grantaire working him open. One finger became two, then three as Enjolras squirmed against the table, trying to push himself back into the sensation.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras appealed, voice cracking with implication.

“Yeah, _yeah_ , okay,” Grantaire said roughly, and his hand was gone. Enjolras’s let out a low whine of disappointment, though it cut off when he felt Grantaire again, pressed against him and pushing forward slowly. Enjolras’s fingers curled, and Grantaire brushed a kiss to the back of his neck, breathing out slowly against his skin.

He settled, flexed his fingers against Enjolras’s hips and hissed out between his teeth. Enjolras had his head bent forward against the table, his back rising and falling as he breathed in deeply. 

Grantaire rolled his hips slowly, a motion that would normally be gentle if they were sharing a bed and on equal terms. Here, it was a tease, a movement that drew a frustrated groan from Enjolras’s throat. He continued drawing it out, pulling noises from Enjolras until he was shaking **.**

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras hissed, half annoyed, half pleading. Grantaire laughed, then snapped his hips forward. Enjolras’s arms jerked against the scarf binding him, and Grantaire moved a hand to grasp his wrists. Grantaire looked up and his tongue pressed against his teeth, his lips curling into a smirk. He rocked his hips, pushing Enjolras forward with each thrust. Enjolras felt the pull in his stomach at the friction and even though he had been _told_ , he couldn't stop it, and--

Grantaire's hand moved, encircled his throat, _squeezed_ , and pulled him up off the table and away from bodily contact with anything. 

“I'm not making it that easy for you,” Grantaire purred against his ear. His other arm slung low around Enjolras’s chest, holding him firmly in place. Enjolras, unbalanced, leant his whole weight back, his head following to drop against Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire’s hand didn’t move, fingers curled around his Enjolras’s neck, keeping him upright as Grantaire’s hips continued to move. 

His grip didn’t loosen. His thumb pressed against the rapidly darkening bite mark on his skin and his fingers applied tight pressure against his throat. His fingers flexed, then tightened unintentionally, using Enjolras’s body as an anchor for his movements. Enjolras’s breath hitched in his throat, and Grantaire slowed, then stilled. He breathed out, a soft _oh_ against the shell of Enjolras’s ear, then pressed again, deliberate this time. Enjolras’s breath caught, then exhaled in a ragged gasp, his hips bucking forward helplessly against the air. Grantaire held him there, unmoving, the muscles in his forearm tense from the pressure he was applying. Enjolras’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips moving wordlessly, his fingers trying to find purchase against Grantaire’s stomach.

They’d never discussed this. This was _new_.

Grantaire released him, hand staying at his throat, fingers going lax. Enjolras breathed in, quick and sharp, his body shaking.

“Fucking _Christ_ , Enjolras,” Grantarie rasped, his fingers twitching. He squeezed again, quick and hard, enough to bring a choked noise from Enjolras’s throat. Grantaire groaned, wrecked, because there would be bruises tomorrow. The angry red of his teeth imprints would match the black and blue he was leaving with his fingerprints, and Enjolras wouldn’t be able to hide any of it. Everyone would see them, would know they were there. Everyone would know that Enjolras, their proud and righteous leader, had been _owned_. 

Grantaire still hadn’t moved. Enjolras keened, tried to push himself back and when he found himself held immobile, broke.

“Grantaire. Grantaire, please,” he sobbed, rocking his hips shallowly, “Please, _please_ , I want-- I _need--_ ” 

Grantaire swore, and dropped his hand to Enjolras's shoulder. In one hard move, he pushed him back down, until Enjolras was flat. Then he moved. All restraint gone, he kept a hand firmly on Enjolras’s shoulder, gripping, pulling him back to meet each snap of his hips. The table creaked, skidding slightly along the floor each time Grantaire rolled forward and Enjolras’s hips slammed against the edge. Enjolras was panting, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the air, whimpers being pulled from him unwillingly. 

Grantaire dropped his hand to the table, bracing himself, sending the cigarette packet and Enjolras’s glasses flying off and onto the floor. Enjolras could see his forearm, muscles tense and trembling from exertion, and he ached to touch and hold. Grantaire was erratic, losing himself, and Enjolras pushed back, and tightened.

“Fuck, fuck, _Enjolras,_ ” Grantaire choked out, burying himself and finding his release a moment later.

He leaned over Enjolras, panting harshly, forearm braced against the table near Enjolras’s head. Enjolras could tell where his clothes had rucked up, could feel it rasping across his raw, tender skin.

Enjolras didn’t move, held between Grantaire’s body and the table. He was thrumming with energy and desperation and _need_. It was clear in every tensed muscle through his body, in the way his chest heaved with gasping breaths and the way his nails dug into his palm hard enough to leave sharp crescent marks, that all he wanted and needed was Grantaire’s permission. 

“Go on,” Grantaire whispered against his ear, voice hoarse. He bit down on the juncture between Enjolras’s neck and shoulder, and rolled his hips forward almost lazily, dragging Enjolras forward. 

Enjolras’s back arched, taut with tension. Then at once, he cried out, voice cracking with relief and he shuddered, body going instantly loose as he came.

They stayed like that for a few moments, Grantaire balancing his weight between his arm and Enjolras. Then he pushed up, shaking, and gently pulled away from him.

Enjolras whimpered, but didn’t move.

Grantaire pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, gently over the already-forming marks from his fingertips, and began working at loosening the knots on the scarf. 

As soon as his wrists were free, Enjolras dropped his hands to rest next to his head, his fingers pressing into the table and relaxing again, in time with his breathing. He kept his head down, and his eyes firmly closed, focused intently somewhere inside his head. Grantaire was propped against the edge of the table next to him, watching him with an attentive stare. This was practiced. He reached out and carefully ran a hand back and forth along the length of Enjolras's spine, fingers trailing gently across each dip of a rib.

“Look at you, you're beautiful,” Grantaire was saying, a constant, low hum of appreciation, “and you were so good, you were perfect. Fuck, I can't believe you let me do that, you're _amazing_ , Christ, you were so, so good.” 

As Enjolras pushed himself up, Grantaire moved. He slid an arm around Enjolras's waist, supporting him, and pressed a tender kiss to his shoulder.

“I've got you,” Grantaire murmured against his skin, reaching out to take one of Enjolras's hands and lace their fingers together. “I've got you." 

Sometimes Enjolras came back to himself quickly. His needs met, he focused his attention back to where it was required as soon as he was done with basic clean-up.

Other times he was like this, like his body wasn't entirely his own. He would look around slowly, remain silent and only be peripherally aware of the world around him. Grantaire brought their joined hands across Enjoras's chest, in a loose hug, and nudged his nose gently against Enjolras's hair, breathing him in. 

They stayed like that, until slowly, eventually, Enjolras squeezed his hand and turned to face him.

“You good?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras nodded, not quite trusting his voice. He was still loose-limbed and unbalanced, but his eyes were sharp. Grantaire smiled and pressed their foreheads together gently. He brought his hands up, and ran them through Enjolras’s hair gently, soothing the hurt he had caused by pulling. He hummed gently, a low sound in his throat, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Enjolras’s lips.

“C'mon, let's get you a shower and a cigarette, then you can go back to... whatever it was you were writing,” He said, sparing a glance to the mostly-ruined pieces of paper. He turned, walking backwards towards the bathroom and leading Enjolras along with him, grinning broadly. Something in Grantaire shifted back, and his body accommodated, his shoulders slouching and his posture turning loose and carefree again.

He didn’t let go of Enjolras’s hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was like pulling teeth at times, for me, but it's here and done. 
> 
> All my thanks goes to Lila, who stayed up with me to listen to me despair over everything.   
> Special love to Chris for beta-ing this over and over even though he isn't in the Les Mis fandom.
> 
> And for Chesh, for her endless patience and making writing this worth it.


End file.
